A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.

The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running

The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.

The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight

It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.

Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes

The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.
Onyx
[on-iks, oh-niks]
noun
1. Mineralogy . a variety of chalcedony having straight parallel bands of alternating colors.
2. black, especially a pure or jet black.
*I use it to refer to the color of onyx, which is white/silver and jet black*

Petrichor
[pe-trahy-kawr, ‐ker]
noun
1. a distinctive scent, usually described as earthy, pleasant, or sweet, produced by rainfall on very dry ground.

Miasma
[mahy-az-muh, mee-]
Noun
1. noxious exhalations from putrescent organic matter; poisonous effluvia or germs polluting the atmosphere.
2. a dangerous, foreboding, or deathlike influence or atmosphere.

Burble
[bur-buh l]
verb (used without object)
1. to make a bubbling sound; bubble.
2. a bubbling or gentle flow.
TRIGGER WARNING: CONTENT PERTAINS TO DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE

Little demons bounce around in
your skull, screaming obscenities
and those same old revelations.
All the while, the strange sounds of
"you're fine," "you're nice," "you're not that bad,"
"you’re not evil,” gets replayed out
of their mouths again. As if they
know your sins. That never-ending
winter you are freezing in. If
only they knew, but you’ll never
tell them. You'd die first. And more and
more that looks like the optimal
choice. Your demise a voice for this
injustice, finally putting
down that mad dog robbing all of
them of a peaceful existence.
Why should such a savage exist?
So you can spread your disgusting
penitence with warm and oh so
bold and colorful poetics?
Why not just end it? Instead you
feed it like the coward you are,
the typical evil piece of
**** that rips up hearts and leaves them
to the wolves. And no one knows, and
no one will care, if you are not
the same as you were back then. This
redemption is an illusion
you fool around with to cool your
intemperance, as useless as
your pathetic attempts at some
rehabilitation, and if
you were honest you'd accept that
your suffering is warranted.
So go meet your end, you *******
sick depressing ****, before you
get selfish again and ruin
another beautiful person.
Please make sure you're in a stable position to read this poem, and if you're not in a stable position to read it, don't do the ****** stuff I do and instead call that number that Logic taught you: 1-800-273-8255.

(And please excuse any humor or lightness that I might express about this topic, now or in the future. I'm very, very intimate with it, and by my own experience and what I know of others is that, the closer and deeper you're in it personally the more humor you can both find in it and need from it. Though to each their own.)

Also, I didn't know this as I wrote the poem, but October is National Depression Month, and, in particular, today, October 11th, is National Depression Screening Day. Do yourself a favor and get checked out, especially if you can relate to my writing or share any of the more typical symptoms.
There’s a horse on a field,
grazing upon grass as the wind plays its favorite tune,
a mountain song,
trickling down upon the eastern flat plains of Colorado.
Her head hung low in soft serenity,
this black mare stares upwards towards a blue purple red sky.
She asks not why or what,
but is simply aware of the natural.
Enjoying her meal,
this black mare alone on her favorite field,
concealed by a white fence,
one more day coming to an end,
turns to her stable,
ready to return.
The sky turns a dark blue.
A September shiver rattles her old craggy bones,
but the stable shelters her from further pain.
Time to rest,
and tomorrow all the same.
A nice, little observation
Took a chance today, and dipped my toe into a
place I never dare to go. I failed. I had hoped
that that would be a nice, happy ending, seeming
tragic yet blessed with the lessons of backbone and
persistence. It’s not. It can never be. Because
I will never let it. All it is is just some
more ammunition for my machine gun head, to
tear me to shreds. Because no matter how much the
intellectual can spot the good ol’ practice-
makes-perfect motif (the idea that because
I at least tried I have made my mark in the right
direction, the clichéd, mythologized concept
that somehow I’m closer to the end of this ****),
my ****** up brain has been meticulously trained
to remind me: I failed, because I fail. I fail.
And every failure is another nail in my
coffin. A coffin that deserves a shallow grave.
Giggles from the child as water
runs down her back, matching
the swinging wind chimes just outside
the wide-open window. Her mother
smiles, her shirtsleeves rolled up and
yet wet and covered in tiny bubbles.
The white tile around them glistens
in the sunlight pouring in, and I,
the grinning dad who just got home,
stand in the doorway, softened clay.
My wife, my beautiful wife,
looks up at me and says “Hey honey,”
and runs another small jug of bathwater
over my baby’s soft head of hair.
The little one trickles out “Hi Daaaaddy,”
and giggles again, as her mother scrubs
her little back and shoulders. Seeing this
scene in front of me, my eyes water
slightly. I pull it back in; after all
these years it’s still difficult for me to
simply be joyous. Nonetheless, there is
an ache in my heart, the ache one feels
when they first fall in love, and I am standing
here falling all over again. I roll up my sleeves
and drop to my knees, and give my wife
and my sweetie the biggest pecks I can muster,
and clean her delicate little arms. The mother
pours another jug, and once again, this little
darling angel, like wind chimes swinging outside,
giggles.
I’ve seen too many faces,
been to too many places.
And now, I wonder what I really know.
But I embraced it. I faced it.
But it’s getting real old,
and I don’t like how cold it’s getting.
The shadows are cast on everything and
the cold breeze is turning into a wind.
Dirt in my eyes, can’t see ****.
Where have you been?
Where did you go? I got lonely
here all on my own.
Fits of rage drove you away
but I’m becoming more silent,
my violence now just a slight whisper,
tickling the back of my throat just a bit.
Can I kiss you?
Can I hug you again?
Do you trust me?
Can you trust me again?
I wouldn’t, and you shouldn’t.
I’m never going to be the innocent,
the lovely, the pure,
one of the beautiful people.
Though you know what they say,
“Can’t see the forest for the trees.”
So please, don’t leave me so soon.
Get a coffee, get a drink,
let’s think together for a second.
And maybe you’ll need a better
boy who holds your hand
in the roller rink, and chuckles and
helps you up when you trip,
and has a grip on himself when
all of this turns to ****.
That’s not me.
I’m not one of those.
One of those you can believe in,
or that I think you deserve,
you lovely, beautiful being.
I’m the **** and rotten,
Though not easily forgotten,
And though oddly forgiving, I’m forgiving
because I know what it is to be guilty,
wilting people’s leaves before
they’ve even had a chance to breathe.
Left behind a trail of mud,
and in my blood there’s dirt and rust
and lumps the size of walnuts
from all the drugs I have to eat
to get and stay asleep.
But I’m weeping less and less,
and my remorse and shame might be a blessing.
I’ve learned the best thing to do
is open up and live through what
someone like me can do
and change my ways from what I’ve done,
before I can inject more and more pain.
And though I’ve got a long way to go,
and I’m still a coward about it,
at some point I’ll apologize, say sorry for it.
For all the lies and bearing
and lack of caring that was
apparent in almost everything.
But ALMOST everything, because there was a genuine,
generous and loving person somewhere
beneath all of it, who wasn’t
going to try to hurt you,
or destroy you. I didn’t try to.
And I know you remember that loving one,
and you wonder why
he couldn’t stick around long enough
before wandering off into the desert or something,
and getting lost. So,
tell me your soul.
I’ll listen, and you know me,
I’ll make fun of it, but I won’t judge it.
You think you’re toxic? I’m full of it.
I’ve been and seen
all of it. Lived it, felt it, gave it.
Your shadows? I can see past them.
Your coldness? I’ve got a built-in blanket.
And I want to feel you
when the dirt blinds me,
when I can’t see **** and you reach out
and your warmth keeps me grounded.
At least for just a little bit.
Promises you never keep,
Dancing in the dark we are
Redeeming what you lost,
Tossed deep into our savage sea.
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